We had our meeting with the oncology surgeon this past Friday and the determination was not what we were hoping for (but what we expected). With the cancer still in several of my lymph nodes, surgery is not an option right now. As the surgeon explained, he can't remove those lymph nodes, or clear the cancer from them (one of them he really can't access as it's apparently behind my aorta), and so the esophagectomy surgery would not be an effective or worthwhile pursuit. He did, however, say it is not off the table. In order for it to happen, the lymph nodes need to be cleared of cancer. Easier said than done.
That surgery, if it happens, is no magical cure-all either. We're talking major surgery that removes a large portion of the esophagus and restructures your insides to create a whole new arrangement. It, just like having cancer, is a life-changing procedure, from diet, to eating schedule, to quality of life changes, etc. On the plus side, it would remove the esophageal masses, but the downside is what I mentioned above, not to mention the risks involved in an 8-hour surgery, and the long recovery afterwards.
But we're not there now (yet) anyway. The next step is to call the oncologist and determine the next course of action. Besides our current oncologist here, in Virginia, we were given a referral to some Johns Hopkins oncologists as well, for a second opinion. Those initial calls will start today. We imagine that it'll involve another round of chemotherapy, at the very least. Will it be the same chemicals? Something new? What frequency? Will immunotherapy also be involved? How will my body react? How will the cancer react? Again, we have no idea. We have no idea where this road through the darkness leads. One thing we feel pretty certain about is that in one way, shape, or form, we're going to be living with cancer for the remainder of my/our time. Maybe we can clear it out/beat it. Maybe we can reduce and contain it. Maybe it's a matter of preventing any further growth and giving me x# of good years left. Lot of "maybes". It's scary, but that's the reality. It's stage IV. That's the unfortunate truth. I'm not giving up, by any means, but it's also important to recognize the facts and reality.
We'll be asking the oncologists hard questions and to be given direct, honest answers. What is their opinion on the usefulness and effectiveness of the treatments they recommend? Will it do any good? Is it worth me going through more hell? What's the outlook with these treatments? Without? We need to make decisions based on hard truths.
This time around, treatments will occur without radiation happening in conjunction. That should alleviate some of the abuse my body will take. I've been given the max amount of radiation and number of treatments that it's safe to give someone. It'll have to be the chemo alone.
I wish I had better news to share. Hell, I wish I weren't writing this blog in the first place. I'm scared, anxious, nervous, and sad. But I remain hopeful, and I remain resolved to do what I can to survive, and live a longer, quality life.
Jess and I are doing the best we can, but this battle, and the current situation of trying to manage our new rental (which is necessary to be closer to the medical facilities and to have the care I need) and our mountain home (which is for sale, but hasn't moved yet), plus medical bills, is taking a financial toll on us. We're trying the best we can, but it's tough. To that end, we've started a new Go Fund Me to provide some help/relief while we continue to push through this. Your already generous donations have made it possible to even be where we are right now and the new GFM details where that money was applied, as well as offering a new explanation of where we are and why we're asking for help again. Trust me, we don't like having to ask again, but we really need the help. If you are able to help in any way, please visit this link:
And, if you wouldn't mind, please consider sharing as widely as you can. Your help and support has been a beacon of light in this smothering darkness.
Thank you for everything you all do. Words really cannot express the gratitude Jess and I have for each of you, but it's the best I can offer. Hug your loved ones. Treasure your health. Truly appreciate every day you have. And damn it...go eat a taco!
- j